i'm feeling like i've missed you all this time
by stolethekey
Summary: "I speak fourteen languages," she hisses, slamming the manual down next to her, "and the instructions are in none of them." or, nat and steve go to ikea


**Notes:**

inspired by a tumblr post by beatingsofabesottedheart2, which really sent my thoughts wildin'.

set between avengers 1 and winter soldier. enjoy!

(as always, you can find me on tumblr stolethekey)

Brooklyn is lovely during the spring.

It's something Steve has rarely taken the time to appreciate, but as he walks down the street toward his apartment, he notices that the sun is shining pleasantly through a clear, blue sky. A slight breeze blows through the air, rustling the paper grocery bag in his arms, and he feels a rush of affection for his hometown as he pushes through the doors to his apartment building.

A faint smile graces his lips as he walks up the stairs, shifting the bag into the crook of his right elbow. His free hand reaches into his pocket for his keys, and the jingle they give as he pulls them out sounds positively cheerful.

There are times he thinks he should move; there are days the buildings seem too suffocating, days the city seems too overwhelmingly a mixture of foreign and familiar. But there are also days—days like today—when it feels welcoming, like this is where he belongs. Like it might be _home_.

Those days are becoming slightly more common.

Steve unlocks his door and steps over the threshold, humming mindlessly as he kicks his shoes off and sets the groceries on the kitchen table. He's about to take the loaf of bread off the top when he hears someone clear their throat behind him.

He spins, fists already rising, to see a familiar redhead stretched lazily across his armchair.

"Hello, Captain," Natasha almost purrs, eyes flickering with a slight amusement. "At ease."

"What are you doing here?"

"Relax," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "I'm not gonna fight you, so you can put those hands down."

Steve lowers his fists slightly, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins does not slow down. "How did you get in?"

She shrugs. "You'd be hard-pressed to find an apartment I couldn't break into," she says nonchalantly. "Don't take it personally. I've broken into many a government building—apartment windows are hardly a challenge."

He takes a step forward, hands unfurling slightly at his sides. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to drop this off," she says, gesturing at a box of assorted trinkets that Steve now notices is in the corner. "But then I got here and I realized that you have a problem."

"I'm not the one who climbed through a window to drop a box off."

"Touché."

Steve rolls his eyes and leans against the wall, waiting for her next words. She merely looks at him, her face a mask of careful indifference.

He sighs. "Okay, I'll bite. What's the problem?"

"The _problem_," Natasha says, with what Steve thinks is an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, "Is that you're living like a college student. And you're ninety-five years old."

"I am _not_—'

"You _are_," she insists, standing with a face full of determination. "I mean, _look_ at this. You have _one cup _and two whole chairs. This is _sad_, Steve, no wonder you hate living here."

"I don't hate living here—"

She narrows her eyes. "Really? You never think that this maybe doesn't feel like home anymore?"

He hesitates, and she smirks. "That's what I thought. Luckily, it's nothing a trip to IKEA won't fix."

"I—IKEA?"

"Yeah," she says, turning to grab her jacket off the armchair. "It's a Swedish store, sells everything from bedframes to meatballs—"

"I know what it is. I just wasn't planning on going."

She purses her lips but says nothing, and he sighs again.

"What are you trying to do?"

"I'm not trying to do anything."

"You're always trying to do something."

There is a beat of silence before she answers. "I know what it's like to be dragged out of a world you knew and dropped into one you're supposed to know but can't seem to," she says with a shrug. "I just wanted to help you navigate that."

She opens the window and slings a leg over the ledge, looking back at him as she does. "But if you want to live like a hermit, go ahead. Suit yourself."

Something squirms in Steve's stomach.

"Wait," he says hurriedly, and she does, an expectant look on her face. "I'll go."

"Great," she says, climbing back into the room and pushing past him. "Then let's go, before I have to spend another second in this depressing apartment."

"No one asked you to be here, you know."

She turns back towards him, something similar to mirth in the corner of her eyes. "You're a human disaster. This is an emergency. And I deal with emergencies."

"I really don't appreciate your tone," Steve mutters, following her obediently down the staircase.

"Maybe I'll change it when your apartment stops looking like it's inhabited by a teenage guy who's never seen a turkey baster in his entire life."

"I—what's a turkey baster?"

She laughs as she unlocks the car, gesturing at him to get in. "You're about to find out." 

It is a testament to how much he has adapted, Steve thinks, that the interior of IKEA doesn't send him into a massive I-grew-up-during-the-Great-Depression heart attack.

The second floor is big enough to house an entire army regiment and their families, and as Steve passes the display for a "cute, minimalist home!" that has more furniture than he grew up with he nearly has a stroke.

"Relax," Natasha murmurs from his side, winding her arm through Steve's. "You look like an amateur thief who's trying to sneak a bag of chips out the door."

"It's just a lot," he hisses as they stop next to a sofa. "I don't know if I can—"

"Hi," a woman wearing a blue vest says brightly, stepping towards them. "Can I help you find anything today?"

"Oh, no," Natasha says, suddenly beaming. "My boyfriend and I are moving into a new apartment together, and we're just looking for some furniture to liven up the place. We'll be fine on our own. Thank you, though."

The employee retreats, and Natasha pushes Steve farther into the store, a firm hand on his back.

"How do you do that?" He asks, once the employee is out of earshot.

"Do what?"

"Make your eyes—make them sparkle like that."

She snorts. "Practice."

They come to a stop near another sofa—really, how many couches can there possibly _be_ in one room—and she forces him to sit in it.

"Look," she says, arms crossed. "I know this is overwhelming. But it's for your own good."

"I know," he mutters. "I know, it's just—I spent so much of my life living off the bare minimum, and this just seems so—"

"Indulgent," she says, nodding. "I know. You think I didn't feel the same way when I got here? But having once lived in terrible conditions doesn't mean that you should be afraid to live in good ones now. If anything, it means the exact opposite. We know how lucky we've gotten to be able to have a better life—shouldn't we do the most we can to live it?"

He hesitates, and her eyes soften. "We both got another chance at life," she says, almost gently. "We deserve to make the most of it. Trust me, it took me a long time to accept that too. But we're going to live here, and now, no matter what. So we might as well make it as comfortable as we can."

Steve takes a deep breath, his fingers kneading the fabric of the couch. "Okay," he says, standing slowly. "Okay. But no more fake boyfriend stuff. That seems unnecessary."

"On the contrary," she says, a sly smile making its way across her face, "It's _very_ necessary. You're a terrible liar, and you need practice going undercover."

"I—um—"

She grins again, slapping him with a towel she has apparently summoned out of thin air. "I'm _kidding_," she laughs. "Not about the fact that you're a terrible liar. But we don't have to do the fake-couple stuff. We can save that for next time."

Natasha turns and heads back down the hallway and he follows, a faint smile toying at his lips.

He's making progress, Steve thinks, as he lets her pick out a new couch and some new shelves. She asks him what kind of TV stand he wants and he actually gives her an opinion (wood), which makes something he thinks is pride flash briefly through her eyes.

They've made it onto the bottom floor, having placed an order for the most comfortable couch Steve has ever sat on, and are each pushing a cart through the looser items when he starts to think she's stretching the limits again.

"I don't need a forty-piece silverware set."

She rolls her eyes as she takes the box off the shelf. "You don't _need_ that obnoxious suit that makes you look like a child's doll, either, but you wear it anyway."

"It's not the same thing."

"Sure," she says, shrugging and walking toward the drinkware.

"I—wait," he says, jogging slightly to catch up to her, "You don't like the suit?"

She smirks as she tosses a six-pack of coasters into the cart. "It's just…very loud."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It's just—the colors, they're kind of obnoxious—"

"_Obnoxious?_"

"No—no," she says, laughing slightly. "That's not what I meant. It's just a lot brighter than what I would wear."

"You literally only wear black."

"Yeah, for _stealth_," she says, putting so many wine glasses into the cart he thinks he can see rainbows, "It's functional. The red, white, and blue are not. Do you know how hard it is to work with that?"

"Fine," he says, forgoing a protest about the glasses for a more important conversation. "If it's that important to you, I'll get a stealth suit. But you don't get to make fun of it."

She gasps in mock shock, and insulted expression spreading across her face. "I would _never_."

They roll the carts to checkout, and Steve realizes with a jolt that they are both somehow full. He pales slightly as the price for the first chair comes up on the screen—$25.99—and Natasha slaps a hand over his eyes.

"Turn around," she says, almost carelessly.

"Why—"

"So you don't see the prices."

"But I have to pay for them—"

"No," she says airily, "You don't. It's going on my SHIELD credit card."

"Okay, well, I have a SHIELD credit card too—"

"Yeah, but it's easier if I do it. They've learned the hard way not to ask questions about my purchases."

"But—"

"America, like many other countries, has a terribly exploitative economy. SHIELD gets a lot of funding from a lot of very wealthy people that employ a lot of not-very-wealthy people. If anything, this little furniture expedition is just us taking advantage of a system that would not hesitate to take advantage of us."

He hesitates, and some of his discomfort must show on his face, because her expression softens. "Turn around," she says again, her hands rotating him gently. "We can talk about it in the car."

She must notice that he is still uneasy by the time she's paid what he is sure is an exorbitant amount of money, because she carries her share across the parking lot instead of making him carry all of it and doesn't make a single quip (though he's sure "_what was the serum _for,_ anyway?"_ is screaming in her head). They fill the trunk and the backseat with bags and boxes, and after Natasha pulls back onto the street she glances briefly at him.

"The world is full of shades of grey," she says quietly. "If you're going to live in the 21st century, you'll need to accept that."

"You don't think I'm trying?"

"I know it's hard when you've had such a…black-and-white view of right and wrong your entire life. But things are different now. The best we can do is try to be mostly good. And sometimes we have to compromise to do that."

"In ways that make me not sleep so well."

She sighs, but there is no exasperation in her voice when she speaks. "It's better than not being able to sleep at all."

He looks over at her to see her eyes trained on the road, her expression slightly wistful.

"I'm trying," he says quietly. "I really am."

She turns to meet his gaze, an uncharacteristic softness in her eyes. "I know."

The tension has lifted slightly by the time Natasha pulls back into the apartment parking lot, and as they lug their purchases up the steps and into the living room, she starts delegating tasks with a comfortingly familiar authority.

"They're moving the couch in tomorrow, and they'll help you get rid of your old one, but we should probably do everything else tonight. I can do the TV stand, if you want to get started on the shelves."

"You don't have to—I mean, you've done enough, I don't want to force you to do more work—"

"You're not forcing me to do anything," she says, smiling slightly. "This was my idea. Who would I be to leave you with all of this disassembled furniture?"

A curious sense of relief starts creeping into Steve's shoulders. "I guess I could use the help," he says, and she grins. "I'll order us a pizza."

"Oh, God, yes," she says, already ripping open the TV stand box. "Please do."

The next hour passes in relative silence, the two of them focused solely on the pieces of wood in their hands. They finish their respective pieces and move on to the next, the occasional pounding of a hammer or wrinkle of paper providing brief interruptions of a comfortable, quiet atmosphere.

It isn't until Natasha lets out a slight growl that Steve looks up, noticing that a few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail she'd thrown up haphazardly at the start of the night. The pieces of what is potentially an office chair are spread out in front of her, and as she stares at the instruction manual with a hatred typically reserved for mass murderers he lets his screwdriver drop to the floor.

"What's going on?"

She looks up, frustration in every inch of her gaze. "Did you know that I can speak fourteen languages?"

"Uh, no, but what does that—"

"I speak _fourteen languages_," she hisses, slamming the manual down next to her, "and the instructions are in _none of them_."

He laughs at that, and even though she initially looks offended her face softens slightly as he crawls across the floor toward her.

"Let me see," he says, picking the manual back up. "I think your brain needs a break from this chair."

"I was tortured and starved for _decades_, I think I can handle a _chair_—"

"Relax," he says, shoving her towards the other end of the room. "Go build my shoe rack. We'll trade."

She picks her way across the hardwood, grumbling the entire time, and sits down next to the half-built rack with a huff. "Where the fuck is our pizza, anyway?"

"Maybe it's waiting for you to finish that rack."

She glares at him, wrinkling her nose when he shoots her an innocent grin, and then starts pounding a nail into the wood with a truly impressive force.

The doorbell rings just as Steve _finally_ puts the last wheel on the chair and Natasha completes her third curtain replacement. She lets out a delighted yelp at the sound, and Steve scrambles past his newly-built shoe rack to open the door, an excessive amount of excitement rushing through his veins. He tips the delivery man far too much and kicks the door closed as he turns back around, raising his eyebrows at his companion.

"About time," she says, beckoning at him to join her on the floor. "I'm going to die if I don't eat that right this second."

He sits next to her, their backs leaning against the wall, and cracks open the top box. She very nearly tackles him in her haste to grab a slice, and as she takes a bite out of it she lets out an animalistic moan.

"This is the best meal I've ever had. Like, in my entire life."

Steve snorts. "How many Michelin-star restaurants have you eaten at, again?"

She shakes her head, chewing rapidly. "Doesn't matter. This is better."

He rolls his eyes, but as he bites into his own slice and the cheese hits his taste buds, he finds it very hard to argue.

They eat their way through two large pizzas, talking and laughing the entire time, and after the last slice is gone her shoulders slump.

They sit in silence for a while, both pondering the empty pizza boxes, before Natasha sighs. "Should we get back to work, then?"

Steve groans. "Probably."

She crawls reluctantly back toward the middle of the room, half-heartedly picking up a screwdriver on the way. "Do you think we'll finish tonight?"

"Yeah," he says, trying to put as much gusto into his voice as he can. "I believe in us."

They don't, but they do manage to assemble everything that needs to be built before they find themselves sprawled out across the floor, lying on top of a brand-new rug.

"Nat," Steve mumbles, exhaustion overtaking his brain so rapidly that he doesn't realize this is the first time he's using that nickname. "We hafta set the glasses and plates up. Make them pretty on the shelf."

"Mmmrph." Her eyes are closed as she curls up on the rug, her words slurring slightly. "We can do it tomorrow. I'll help if you get more pizza."

"Mkay. Deal."

He heaves himself to his feet and shuffles over to the light switch, pausing to grab the two throw blankets peeking out of a shopping bag on his way. He turns the lights off, but the moonlight peeking through the window is bright enough for him to see Natasha's silhouette on the floor. Her eyes stay closed as he makes his way back onto the rug and drapes a blanket over her, but he notices a soft smile on her face as he lowers himself onto the floor beside her.

The night is just warm enough to be comfortable, and as he burrows deeper into his blanket a gleam of moonlight catches Natasha's hair, the silver light making the red shine.

It's the last thing he sees before his eyes shut and sleep overtakes him, but as he lies on that IKEA rug, surrounded by a superspy, newly-built furniture, and loose cardboard, one thought rises unbidden to the top of his mind:

He's home.


End file.
